


Inspection Duty

by niniblack



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Jerott's livelong obsession started somewhere, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pre-Series, it wasn't here but this didn't help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniblack/pseuds/niniblack
Summary: On the eve of the Battle of Solway Moss, Jerott Blyth takes it upon himself to inspect the camp. He finds more than he expected.





	Inspection Duty

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for spanchops for ScotSwap, who asked for a bored Francis pre-QP (and some Francis/Jerott OTP) and is instead getting a bored Francis pre-series. I hope you like it! I apologize for being horribly late, and for not attempting in any way whatsoever to echo 16th century speech patterns (tho I did look it up, and apparently "randy" can be traced back to 16th century Scotland).
> 
> Jerott has it bad, but we all knew that already. This is not the reason he has it bad, but I can't imagine it helped much.

Sleep was impossible. Jerott didn’t know how the other men did it, in shoddy tents that flapped in the wind or huddled in whatever coverings they could find for warmth. It was miserable, and not at all what he’d been led to believe being on a war campaign was meant to be like. Where were the orderly rows of tents, the well-tended fires, the damned  _ rations _ so that they might have the energy to even fight tomorrow?

“You’re going to wake everyone, stomping about like that,” someone said, a voice off to his right.

Jerott startled badly, stumbling as he turned to find who had spoken. It took him a moment to recognize him in the gloomy camp lighting, but it was Francis Crawford, leaning against a tree and grinning, his teeth shining brighter in the dark.

“What are you doing lurking about in the dark, Crawford? You’ll startle someone who’ll stab you first and ask questions later.”

“That’s assuming anyone here is that good with a sword,” Francis said. “You’re clearly not.” He stepped forward, and in the light from one of the nearby fires his hair shown golden. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. “Battle nerves?”

“No,” Jerott said, crossing his arms over his chest, then realizing how that looked and dropping them to his side. “Just… checking up on things.”

“Checking up on things,” Francis repeated.

“Yes,” Jerott said. “Making sure everything’s in order.”

Francis had an odd expression on his face, like he was trying to keep it from doing something else, as he nodded. “Sounds important. Did someone ask you to do that?”

Jerott tapped his fingers against his thigh to avoid the urge to cross his arms again. “Well no. But it seemed like a thing that needed to be done.”

“Oh, indeed. We’re much safer for having you here, Captain Blythe.”

Jerott did cross his arms then, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tried to think of something cutting to say back. Nothing came to mind, and even if it had it wouldn’t have done any good. That was the trouble with Francis, even if you had a good comeback it only made him laugh harder.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Francis said, after Jerott was silent for too long. He stepped up into Jerott’s space, laying a hand on his arm. “You know I’m only teasing you because you make it so easy.”

“I just think,” Jerott said, “that someone should be checking the perimeter of the camp.”

“Well, you must have checked the whole thing by now, haven’t you?”

“Nearly,” Jerott acknowledged.

“Come on then,” Francis said. “I’ve got some wine in my tent.”

“ _ Wine! _ ” Jerott hissed, scandalized. “We have to fight a battle tomorrow!”

“All the more reason to get drunk tonight,” Francis proclaimed. He tugged on Jerott’s wrist, and Jerott found himself pulled along in Francis’ wake along the edge of the camp, to a decently sized tent, grouped together with a few others and a fire blazing between them. He eyed the other tents, but no one emerged at the noise they made.

“Richard’s out plotting actual battle tactics or some such,” Francis explained. “Come on.” He didn’t wait for Jerott to follow him into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him, but of course Jerott lifted it a moment later, finding Francis already sprawled on the ground, a small lantern lighting the space.

“The wine’s in that bag.” Francis gestured over his shoulder, and left Jerott to find the bottle himself. It was heavy glass, and there were no cups. When he turned back Francis was holding out a hand, fingers grasping.

He gulped it straight from the bottle, one fist wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and Jerott watched his throat work, swallowing. His eyes drifted up as a drop escaped Francis’ lips and trailed down his chin. When Francis stopped drinking he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and held the bottle out to Jerott.

“It’s absolute swill,” he said. “Best to drink it fast.”

“Sure,” Jerott said, eyes still on Francis’ lips. Were they dark from the dim lighting, or from the wine?

He wasn’t prepared for how bad the wine was, and nearly spit it back out at the first taste, which sent Francis into a peal of laughter. He got it down on the second try, taking a long drink, before passing it back to Francis.

They passed the wine back and forth until Jerott was feeling decidedly loose, his head a bit light. “It really is awful,” he insisted, trying to make Francis see sense.

“Uh huh,” Francis said, drinking more wine.

“There’s no organization at  _ all _ . How are we supposed to defeat the English if we can’t even pitch our tents in a straight line?”

Francis was looking at him, fighting to keep a grin off his face. “With swords, I imagine. That is the traditional way. Or were you going to fight them with straight tent lines?”

“That’s not what I  _ meant _ . I  _ meant _ –” Jerott tried to say.

“You feel very strongly about straight tents,” Francis finished for him.

“Yes,” Jerott said. “No! I mean, I do, but also it’s the prin-ci-ple of the thing. If we can’t organize tents how can we organize anything else?”

Francis was still grinning. “We’d be lost without you, Captain.”

“I’m not a Captain.”

“Right,” Francis says. “And you’re going to go home after this, and do what? Inherit the family estate?”

“I’ve got a girl,” Jerott tells him.

“Hmm.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“After this? What are you going to do?”

Rather than answer, Francis flops over onto his back, limbs spread as far as the small tent will allow. He tilts his head back, grinding his skull against the ground, and asks, “Is there anymore wine?”

“Uh…” Jerott drags his eyes away from the line of Francis’ waist, skin exposed by the way he’s stretching, and looks at the bottle. “No, why?”

“Because it made me randy.”

Jerott stares in disbelief. He must be seeing things now. The wine has made him randy too or something, because there is just  _ no way _ Francis is reaching for the laces of his pants and fumbling to undo them. He blinks hard. No, still happening.

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Jerott demands.

“Getting off,” Francis says, like it’s perfectly obvious. His hand is inside his pants now, fingers obviously cupping himself. “Didn’t it make you…?”

It must have, Jerott decides. There must have been something in the wine. Because he’s hard, dick straining against his pants, and that  _ only _ explanation possible is that it was the wine. “Yes,” he manages to say.

“Well, come on then,” Francis says, and then he takes his cock out of pants, and all Jerott can do is stare.

His cock is flushed, the color is hard to see exactly in the low lantern light but it’s dark in contrast to Francis’ fingers wrapped around the base. He squeezes, then strokes upward, thumb moving to stroke over the head in a smooth, practiced motion, before he strokes back down again.

Jerott watches him for several strokes, mesmerized and growing harder in his own pants. Then he chances a glance up at Francis’ face, and finds Francis looking back at him.

Jerott rocks back onto his heels so fast he falls on his ass, scrambling, but all Francis does is raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to take care of yourself?” Francis asks.

“Oh, um… Yes.” Jerott manages to get his own pants undone, Francis still watching him. His cock has leaked a wet spot onto his pants, and the first slide of his hand over the skin is already slick from the pre-come.

“You act like you’ve never done this before,” Francis says. He shifts, planting one foot flat on the ground and raising his knee, hips jerking off the ground as he does before settling again. It’s not the knee that would block Jerott’s view of him though.

“Done, um… I haven’t, that is–”

“I know you haven’t had sex,” Francis says.

Jerott stops stroking himself to stare for a moment, because  _ how _ could Francis know a thing like that? But then Francis goes on, “You’re way too straight-laced to ever fuck someone out of wedlock. But haven’t you gotten off with your friends before?” He pauses, then adds, “You’re acting weird about it.”

“I am not!”

“You are a bit.”

“Of course I’ve done this before,” Jerott lies. “Many times.”

Francis’ mouth does that thing where only one side of it curves up, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he glances up at the top of the tent and cants his hips again. His hand is working his cock faster now, and it’s only another minute before he lets out a little sigh and comes messily onto his stomach.

Jerott finds himself staring at the mess, and working his own cock furiously until he comes as well, making his own mess on the ground.

When he glances back up, Francis has already cleaned up and tied his pants back up. Jerott hurries to do the same, and just as he does there’s a noise from outside the tent.

The tent flap is thrown back, and it’s Francis’ brother, Richard, sticking his head inside. He seems to take a moment to survey the scene, eyeing Jerott for a long moment, then raises an eyebrow at his brother. “What are you doing?”

“Relaxing,” Francis says.

“Well stop,” Richard says. “And get out here.” He lets the tent flap fall closed behind him again.

Francis climbs up to his knees. “Well come on then, Captain. Perhaps they finally have an actual job for you to do.”


End file.
